Father’s Day.
Fourteen years since I last had one of my own.
And still, the ache finds its way in—not as a scream, but as a whisper. A weight. A breath I hold without noticing.
I gave myself the kindness of a lie-in. No alarm, no expectations. Just the soft rebellion of rest Later, I did some housework—small, steady motions that let my mind go quiet
Then I met Sarah and the kids at the Friquet for iced lemonade and easy company. I bought bubbles for Luca— a reminder of me as I’m not a constant yet.
. We let the children loose in the park—wild, loud, and golden in the light. I sat still, letting the breeze fold around me. Letting the moment hold me where he couldn’t.
In the afternoon, I went to my mum’s and sat in the sunshine with Alan for Father’s Day. The dogs lazed nearby, warm and content. And for a little while, it didn’t hurt.
Then to Joel’s mum and dad—where warmth is the default, not the exception. I watched Luca run and play, try his bike without stabilisers, chase the bubbles I’d brought. There was so much joy in something so simple. They made me feel like I belonged—not as a visitor, but as part of something. I love them for that.
I had a rare hour to myself—just enough to throw on a load of washing, geek out over a game on my laptop, and feel the quiet satisfaction of a moment completely my own.
Joel picked me up just before the sun dipped low, and we swam together in the sea-bathed pools, 40 slow minutes of motion and salt and laughter. We grabbed Oaty’s for tea, wrapped in post-swim warmth and stillness.
And the night didn’t end there.
We tried two films before settling on Final Destination—just cringey enough to make us laugh, just familiar enough to feel like home. We talked through it, laughed at the absurd bits, the way we always do. Then, in bed, we put on a random documentary about people in love with inanimate objects… and laughed so hard we had to change it just to be able to fall asleep.
I love our Sundays.
I love this softness.
I love him.
There’s a space in my life where my dad should be.
But there are other men, other moments, other gentle places where love still lives.
And I carry that with me, too.